


Insomnia

by crimsonepitaph



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fluff, Domestic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 15:24:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7537972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonepitaph/pseuds/crimsonepitaph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither Sam nor Dean can sleep. They find other things to do instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insomnia

**Author's Note:**

> This is written for the spn_bunker WoL Wednesday, for the theme I have chosen, Winchester domestic moments. Thanks to borgmama1of5 for the lightning-fast beta!

"Sam? Sam!" Dean bellows. "Where the hell are you?"   
  
Damn it, this bunker's too big. Especially on nights like these, when neither of them can sleep.   
  
Even hardened hunters have bouts of insomnia after cases involving kids.   
  
Dean goes from room to room when he doesn’t find Sam in the library. He'd expected to find Sam reading. Or researching. Internet surfing for pictures of dogs, maybe, if he’d had a glass or two of whiskey.   
  
Dean never quite understood if that was an act of self-punishment or a feel-good thing.   
  
"Sam – "  
  
Dean stops the curses threatening to spill out. There's no reason for his agitation. Except – there have been too many moments when Sam never answered him and something was wrong.   
  
"Here," a voice calls out, low, tired, as Dean's passing the showers. 

He makes a sharp turn, follows Sam’s voice inside.

“Finally,” Dean mutters, taking stock of the situation. Which is not what he expected.

Sam’s on the floor, scrubbing the tile patiently, but without much heart. There’s a twist of his lips when he sees Dean entering, but it’s more like a grimace than anything resembling happy.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Sam asks, with the wariness of a guy who already knows the answer.

Dean shakes his head, bending to set the six-pack in his right hand down next to the wall.

It wasn’t a bad case – they wrapped it up pretty fast. But the two victims were kids, little kids that couldn’t have done anything wrong in this world to deserve being monster chow. And Dean doesn’t want to admit that it rattles him, makes him lose sleep, thinking how many monsters there are, and how little they can do about it.

His coping mechanism for that is drinking. Porn. Watching senseless TV.

As for Sam - Dean knows he’s _not_ that much of a clean freak, to be scrubbing the shower floors at 3 AM.

It’s Sam’s way of processing, coming to grips with losing more civilians _kids_. As the realization festers and works its way through all Sam’s overthinking pathways, Sam needs a physical way to get it out.

“Brought beer,” Dean says, sliding down the wall and settling his rear on the chilly floor.

He takes a bottle, opens it, and hands it to Sam, then does the same for himself.

“Thanks,” Sam nods, stopping what he’s doing to take Dean’s offering.

Between them, Dean’s the one who cleans the kitchen, sweeps the floors, irons their shirts, replaces the shampoo when they run out of it, which – Sam should not grumble about what brand Dean buys, if he doesn’t like it, Sam should buy it himself.

Sam’s about the big picture stuff around the bunker – ordering the books on the shelves, keeping the archives up-to-date, washing the drapes and tablecloths, spring cleaning.   _That_ translates into two days of Sam nagging Dean to move furniture to clean behind and dusting everything and Dean grumbling and taking hours to do a five minute job.

“I’m not helping you, you know,” Dean says, pointing at the floor with his beer.

Sam shrugs.

“Just wanted to do _something_.”

Dean nods. He knows the feeling all too well.

He lets the moment lapse into silence.

There’s nothing else to say. No words that can make it better, not right now.

But there is something that can make it more bearable – that’s being together.

It’s not like Dean will ever outright admit to it. But he stays, watches water dripping on the tile and listens to Sam’s breathing.


End file.
